The Abundance of Sentiment
by Deception's Call
Summary: He had never believed in love. That is until he met her. He was engaged, and she was a stowaway, they could never be together. But then again, Sherlock Holmes was always up for a good challenge. Titanic AU. Sherlolly.
1. April 10th, 1912 - Morning

**Hello everyone! So this is just something I'm testing out since the premise has been in my mind for an extremely long time now. If this gets a good response, I'll happily continue! :)**

**It won't follow the 1997 James Cameron film, since I'm just taking the idea of the Titanic. However there will probably be some allusions to the film, especially since this is going to be about star-crossed lovers. **

_(Full) Summary: Sherlock, Molly, and their ill-fated voyage on the Titanic. _

_It wasn't until the betrothed detective met the female stowaway that Sherlock Holmes found out what it truly meant to be alive. _

**I hope you'll give this story a chance!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

_The Abundance of Sentiment_

It was once said that the greatest love stories were the ones that would die with us. What they didn't say, however, was that love was the only feeling that was truly infinite.

Molly Hooper had seen a lot of things in her lifetime. In her nearly twenty five years, her eyes were worn with the burden of witnessing death and grieving families, and the backhanded alleyways of England filled with homeless children and conniving thieves.

She was not an ordinary woman. Most at her age were already married with two children and most likely living a comfortable life in the countryside tending to the stable horses and watching the sun rise and bow beneath the horizon. But not Molly.

She had, in fact, been betrothed when she was eighteen to a thirty five year old businessman who was recently widowed and looking for a new wife to indulge his newly found needs. He was vile, imprudent, disgusting and utterly sexist – at every dinner, she would have to wait for his permission to let her speak, and that alone was a rare treat. He had not taken to her love of medicine and pathology, deeming it unworthy and unfitting for a woman.

Her place, he had said, was at his feet, tending to his every whim. That her sole purpose for living was to serve _him. _

Well damn him.

Because this was her life, and damn her if she was going to let anyone take that away from her.

She had pleaded with her mother to end the engagement, but her mother had refused her daughter's pleas, and instead told her that marrying him would ensure her a comfortable life.

One thing that Molly knew for sure was that she would rather live a happy but rough life, than a sad but comfortable one.

It was the night before the wedding that Molly finally made her decision.

She would no longer let anyone take control of her life again.

She had stolen a bag from the back of the wardrobe, and filled it with clothes and supplies until the bag would hardly shut. She infiltrated the safe in the room with her mother's code, and stole the money that was kept inside.

Then she opened the window to the vast world ahead, with the crescent moon shining on half of the night, and the barely visible stars twinkling on ahead.

The world was beyond, and it was time to leave home.

Surely, she had expected a man hunt to search for her in the days and weeks that passed, but she managed to elude them, albeit barely. She had chopped off her long hair into a boyish cut, and wore the clothes in the bag that she had taken, whether she had taken male or female clothing, she did not care.

Her family had looked for her for three months, until her mother had finally decided that enough was enough, and soon relinquished her hold on her daughter.

Her fiancé however? Well, last Molly heard he married the daughter of another business tycoon, and was now living in the city, money being spent away on unnecessary items. He was apparently, without child since his wife was unable to bore him children.

The chortle that escaped her when she found out could not be suppressed.

And yet, she had fled from the city she grew up in, living and inserting herself with the thugs that roamed the streets at night, becoming one with the phantoms that roamed the dark streets.

But Molly, ever the girl and always the woman, didn't have it all that easy.

Her father had taught her self-defense before he died, so it was not without a fight that she found herself in. A woman unaccompanied roaming the streets at night would certainly attract attention. Sometimes she found herself cornered by drunk men, but she managed to coax herself out of it using the skills she learned from her father.

To the normal appearance and the normal passerby, Molly looked like a shy woman who would flinch at an insult. And that, she was. But she was also so much more.

She had always had a fond spot for the ones she loved, often going out of her way to help them, even if it meant sacrifice on her behalf. She still had that trait of hers even until now.

Because despite the years on the street hardening her, she is always going to be that girl from her childhood, picking roses and flowers to give to her parents and helping out whenever she could.

She had been taught by various people she met on her travels, experienced thieves and con artists, the ways that she could skirt by life without spending a penny.

She was tired of England, with its dreary rain and darkening clouds, although it had served her home for all her life. But her time there was done, that chapter closed. She wanted something new, something exciting. She wanted to start a new life because she was finally done running.

And that is how she found herself sneaking onto the Titanic.

What she didn't expect, however, was to fall in love.

* * *

Perhaps it was the bright lights and the tedious guests that make Sherlock Holmes fidget in his seat. Or maybe it was the constant crackling of the wheels against the stone and the crashing of waves against the iron bars. Nevertheless, Sherlock found himself twisting around in the carriage, pulling his coat around him tighter and curling in on himself in the corner.

Beyond, he saw the Titanic emerge from the fog, a magnificent beast in all of its glory, shining with polished skin and strong with its size.

He hated it.

He completely and utterly hated it.

The ship was nothing but that – a ship. Deemed the largest passenger cruise liner, it could hold over two thousand souls on board. But to Sherlock, none of that mattered. He didn't see anything special in that ship.

He had often wondered about morality, about the pure essence and spiritual meaning of what it meant to be alive, but he found that in the end, humanity and morality were nothing but trivial things that put a weight on his chest. All lives end.

And it seemed, his already did.

At almost thirty, Sherlock had been pestered by his parents to find a suitable life partner for almost five years, and he could safely say that the thread he'd been walking on was surely about to snap. And it did.

Because, like the weather deciding to cloud the people on the street in fog, his parents had officially given him off to the daughter of a wealthy politician in New York. He had not chosen this life. They had lied and deceived the family, promising them that their son, Sherlock, was the one that chose their beloved daughter as the perfect bride.

He was nothing but a lie caught up in a convincing tale.

The truth, if Sherlock had to be honest, was that he wasn't looking for a wife. Not now, not yet, and maybe never. He had never found himself particularly attracted to anyone, mostly due to the fact that everyone he met had been tedious and dull. He hadn't met anyone that sparked his interest. And now he most likely never will.

But he was okay with that. He was okay with spending his life alone because in the end, he was the only person that could protect himself. Because in the end, he will be the only one he can rely on to always be there. Alone protects him.

He didn't know this woman, at least not very well. He had not even seen a picture of her. But here he was, destined to board the ship that will take him to the new world, to a new life that will hold nothing but longing for his true passion, to break the chains and get set free.

He was always a free soul. He did not care about social convention, nor about social propriety. But here he was, bound to his parents and to a marriage that was doomed to fail. He did not want this, and that would certainly show. He wanted to be set free, but he knew as clear as day that his parents would most certainly keep ahold of him until he got his life in check.

His brother, Mycroft, had been set as an example time and time again. Occupying a minor (major) position in the British government, he married at age twenty five and was now living with his wife and son in Central London, all the while carrying his duties as a puppet to the country. His parents were so proud, chiding him every hour of every day musing about why he couldn't be like his brother. And that's why Sherlock hated him.

Well, he didn't hate him, not fully anyway.

Mycroft was being left behind in England, scheduled to arrive the day before the wedding, as he had pressing matters to attend to.

Which left Sherlock alone with his parents in a carriage taking them to the ship that would change his life.

* * *

"It's quite beautiful, isn't it?" his mother mused beside him.

Sherlock dipped his hat further down his head, squashing the errant curls against his face, "If you believe it is."

His father threw him a look, and Sherlock shut up.

"Would you be so kind as to take this to our quarters?" he heard his father ask the worker beside him, subtly sneaking in a couple gold coins and pound notes when the boy started to protest.

"Of course, sir," he obliged, and soon Sherlock found his things being carted away and up the ramp into the ship, disappearing from sight.

He patted his coat pocket, finding relief that his miniature magnifying glass and bag of tools were still there. If he was going to spend the rest of his life until it ended because of his marriage on this ship, then he's going to at least make the most of it. Surely there had to be something that would quench his boredom. He is a consulting detective, and he's not going to deny that he thrives on adventure.

As he walked up the ramp to the ship, he noticed a string of people marching into the lower compartments of the ship, most likely the workers who shoveled coal into the ship's furnace. And as he zeroed in, his blue eyes met the brown ones of someone who seemed out of place – a woman dressed like and walking among men. A stowaway.

Perhaps there was going to be something interesting on this ship after all.

* * *

If life on the street had taught Molly something, it was that no one ever checked who the workers were, much less on a ship as big as this. It would have been too much of an effort to uphold.

Sneaking into workers storage holding place had been easy enough, the lock wasn't very hard to pick, and it certainly wasn't the securest. She hid her now long hair underneath a hat, and slipped inside.

Molly had learned the art of being a shadow a long time ago.

As she entered the holding room, she snagged a pair of uniform overalls and slipped it over her petite body. Then she weaved herself back into the crowd, marching out the door and into the fog, and found herself stepping onto a ramp that led to the lower levels of the ship.

With her bag slung over her shoulder and two layered clothes, she was still small compared to the other men surrounding her. Amongst the crowd of men, she looked up, and found herself staring at the vast beauty of the ship, its size making her feel even smaller.

Her mouth gaped open in amazement.

Then she found herself looking over at the ramps overhead, where the lower, middle and upper class passengers entered the ship. She found herself awestruck at the sheer size. And she also found herself a little nostalgic for her old home life, even after so many years, while looking at the upper class passengers waltz onboard.

Then her eyes got caught on one passenger, a young man draped in a dark coat who, instead of walking gracefully, seemed to be dragging his feet along, pulling himself towards the repulsion acting towards his body and the ship. From what Molly could see, he had a somber and sad look on his face.

And as she was just starting to pull away and look at the ground, she found a pair of blue eyes belonging to the same man staring back at her.

It seemed that the art of being a shadow didn't work on everyone.

But when Molly saw a small smile tug on the man's lips, she knew that her secret was safe.

* * *

As Sherlock peered out of the window of his living quarters, he sneered at the people leaning off the edge of the rails, screaming and waving to those below them, bidding farewell and their loving goodbyes.

He scoffed to himself in envy, he wished he was that happy.

As he glanced around the room, he found his mind constantly drifting towards the stowaway from earlier, because amongst all the madness on the ship, all of the people with places to be, _she _was the only one that intrigued him. The only one with a story that seemed worth telling.

Everybody else was nothing but a bunch of pompous rich snobs, with the typical mistress and secret child. Some others, in fact, most, just weren't fascinating at all.

They were utterly _boring._

But there was something about this stowaway – this _woman_, that intrigued him. There was something in her eyes that spoke of something _more _than the usual people he encountered on the street.

There was something different about her, and he was going to find out what.

She was the only infinitely interesting this on this ship, after all.

* * *

Molly managed to slip away from the workers as soon as she got inside. The hot steam of the machines was the first thing that hit her, making her double layered clothes cling to her body and mat her hair in sweat.

She felt like choking in the heat, and ran until she could find the exit.

The door, thankfully, was unguarded as she peered through and discarded her overalls, stuffing them into her already full bag. The guard must be in a meeting with the crew.

She kept her hair up and found herself being hit with the smell of sea salt and the fresh breeze as she stepped through the door. A smile graced her face as she walked through the corridor and up the stairs, heading to the quarters meant for the lower classes. The sound of cheers from the passengers saying goodbye to their loved ones filled Molly's ears, and for a brief moment, she wished she had said goodbye to her mother.

But they had parted a long time ago, and there was no use to dwell on that.

What Molly found herself wondering was where she would be able to sleep. The perks of a stowaway could only be so much.

She climbed the stairs and turned the corner, before finding herself splattered on the floor, clothes scattered from her bag and hat flung off, displaying her brown locks cascading down her back.

"Oh I'm – _oh,_" a male voice said.

Molly bit her lip and silently cursed, from the way she had just come from and judging by her attire, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out who she really was.

"I'm sorry, terribly rude of me, here," the man held a hand to her.

She looked up and caught sight of an attractive man with silver hair and friendly eyes watching her. "O-oh," she stuttered and grasped the man's hand, "thank you."

The silver-haired stranger shrugged, "it's no big deal. And don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you," she whispered gratefully, gathering her clothes together.

The man knelt down and began handing her the stray items, "So what's your name?"

Molly raised a brow.

"Oh don't worry! I stay true to my word. I'm not going to report you. I'll go first. The name's Greg Lestrade," the man smiled.

Molly took the clothes from his hand gently, "Molly Hooper."

"A lovely name for a beautiful girl."

She blushed, it had been a long time since she had been complimented.

He watched her with a tilted head as she re-packed the clothes in her bag. "So I don't suppose you have anywhere to stay?"

She shook her head, "No, I don't."

"Well I guess you can stay in my quarters. It's not very big though."

Molly felt a wide smile break on her face, "Really? Thank you! And it's fine, size doesn't particularly matter to me anyway."

He laughed, "Yes really. Now come on Molly Hooper," he held his arm out to her, "tell me your story."

* * *

"Sherlock?"

He turned around to face his father, a stone cold look in his eyes. "Yes?"

"You are expected to be at dinner tonight. And please, try to behave," his father hissed tightly through pursed lips, eyes darting to the corners of the room to see if any of the help had come in.

Sherlock cocked his head, "Now why wouldn't I behave? I would hate to tarnish your reputation father."

Siger Holmes narrowed his eyes towards his youngest son, "I don't appreciate your tongue. Just be there and stay quiet until someone asks you a question. And you will answer with poise and grace, like a gentleman should."

Sherlock huffed, about to retaliate until he saw his father disappear through the door and onto the deck. He kicked the wooden wall in frustration and growled. He hated being treated like a child.

Maybe he'd deduce those on his table, just to spite his father.

Or maybe refuse to show up all together.

He smiled to himself, slumping into the wooden chair overlooking the ocean, if his father didn't want to tarnish his precious reputation, then he might as well not show up to avoid being known as the 'troubled son.' And besides, there was a much more important matter than dinner that Sherlock could embark on tonight.

Tonight, he'd find her.

* * *

**Alright so I know there's not much dialogue, but that was mainly because I had to set everything up such as backstories, relationships and settings. If I decide to continue this, then there will be more dialogue (with a fair amount of description, of course) and there will be ****heavy romance.**

**I know that Molly is a tiny bit OCC with her background, but I think that if she lived in those times, she'd utterly refuse to correspond with the social norms for a woman and embark on her own to find herself since she is an intelligent and strong character. Molly is strong, 'nuf said. **

**Also, yes John Watson will appear in this story. :') **

***Rating is subject to change. Might become an 'M' rated story.**

**So…should I continue? Should I not? Let me know!**

**Review? Because your feedback makes me happy and means the world to me :) **


	2. April 10th, 1912 - Evening

**Okay so I think it's obvious that I'm continuing this story :) **

**Thank you for reviewing the first chapter, and giving me wonderful feedback! You guys are amazing!  
MorbidbyDefault, imabookworm815, Rocking the Redhead, nowsusieq, IceQueenForLife, The Love Club, Guest and Hanieh :) Thank you again!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**Time to set sail!**

* * *

The night had always been Molly's favourite time of day. With the darkened sky illuminated by the scattered stars, it had always made Molly close her eyes in wonderment of how vast the universe must be.

And now, with nothing but pure ocean ahead, the stars seemed brighter than ever. And Molly realized how small she must really be.

"Are you sure you don't want to go and have dinner with us?"

She turned around from the small window and faced Lestrade. She smiled at him warmly, "No, it's fine. I think I'll just go walk around."

He shrugged at her and pulled on his worn coat, "It's up to you. You'll know where we'll be."

She nodded and watched him disappear through the door.

Molly had never been one for normal social convention, preferring to stay indoors and read instead of embarking to the salon and socializing with guests. She rumpled through her bag, clothes and other items now unpacked underneath the lone bed, and pulled out her favourite book.

She twirled it in her hands, letting the frayed edges of the paper flitter through her fingers and the crumpling of paper dissolve. Molly sighed deeply, and read the message from her father to her on the first page, written and gifted to her the day before he died.

_Be who you want to be and do what you want to do, and don't let anything or anybody stop you from doing it._

Molly felt a stray tear slip down her face as she read the passage over and over again, fingering the words on the page lightly. It was at times like these, when she was alone with nothing but her bag of belongings, that she felt more alone than ever.

The book had been about science and medicine, a textbook specializing in the field. And to this day, her mother had not known about it. She had never approved of Molly's passion.

Over the years that she ran from city to city, hopping from street to street and town to town, there was never a moment that the book had been left ignored and untouched. At every last page she turned, the front opened again, until Molly had lost count about how many times she had read it. She was pretty sure that she memorized all the passages word for word.

She sighed and watched the cold air dissolve into the wind before plucking herself up off the ground and shrugging on the coat that belonged to her father.

Then she twisted the knob to the door and slipped out, leaving behind an empty room with nothing but the moonlight seeping through the small window.

* * *

Sherlock straightened his tie, his face illuminated by the fire cracking in the hearth. He watched his mother slam her book shut from the corner of his eye and saw her slowly walk towards him.

"Oh Sherlock," she sighed wistfully.

He wrung his jacket around his body, pulling it in and buttoning it up. "What?" he quested.

Sherlock tensed as his mother came closer, bringing her hand up to his cheek. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

He tilted his head at her, perplexed. "What for?"

With his head cocked to the side, Violet Holmes chuckled, it was a little quirk of his that she'd always loved. "You know what for," she mused quietly, "but I assure you she's a lovely girl."

Sherlock scoffed, "Acting is easy. It's just deception with a pretty name."

Violet drew her hand away from her son's face and stepped back. "It was for your own good, Sherlock. We didn't want you to end up alone."

"No," Sherlock said firmly, "it was for yours. You didn't want to tarnish your reputation with a disgraced and single son. I would have fared well enough on my own."

"Now we both know that's not true. Without guidance who'd know where you'd end up? You forget to _eat _for heaven's sake!It's not healthy, and this was the only way I could ensure that my son would outlive me. As he should. I just wanted someone to take care of you," Violet replied, jutting her chin up.

Sherlock face drew in a deep scowl, "Well then doesn't that just show how much faith you have in me."

"I have a lot of faith in you, Sherlock. You're my son."

"That means nothing. I may be your son and you may be my mother in blood, but that's as far as our relationship goes," Sherlock sneered.

He watched his mother recoil, and for a moment, just for a split second, he felt something akin to remorse.

"Sherlock!" a deep voice bellowed. He turned and saw his father with his hand on the door handle, knuckles turning white.

"You will _not _talk to your mother that way," Siger chided harshly. "It's disrespectful and you will apologize this instant."

"I will apologize for nothing," Sherlock bit out.

He pushed passed his father at the doorway, but not before being stopped by a firm and calloused hand grabbing onto his arm.

His father glared at him through dark blue eyes, "I expect you to be at dinner in fifteen minutes."

Sherlock smiled a tight-lipped grin and nodded his head tersely before ripping his arm free and exiting the room.

The cold wind hit him first, and he felt the warmth from the room he left behind quickly exit his body. But, like the stubborn man he was known to be, he stuck up his head and briskly walked away, knowing fully well that his parents were waiting for him to come back inside. No, he would not give them that satisfaction.

The night was chilly, as expected, and he watched as his breath turned into tiny ice crystals in the air before floating away, dissolving and flying off into the wind. He stuck his hands in his pockets and moved forward, intended on making a lap around the ship to get a familiar grasp on the structure.

He was still determined to find her.

Once he felt another gust of wind shake his bones, he huffed out a long breath and stopped walking, feeling the cold air freezing him on the spot.

He found a bench and sat back, beginning to think that maybe storming out without a proper coat wasn't exactly a good idea.

Sherlock shut his eyes, wrinkled his nose, and licked his chapped lips.

He would think. Yes, that would help taking his mind off the weather.

The girl he found amongst men. The woman who walked through the shadows.

Her clothes – a uniform found amongst the workers on the ship, but a strip of cloth was peeking out of her collar, so she was wearing something underneath it. That either meant a quick getaway or disguise or it could mean that she was trying to cover up something, most likely her breasts. It could also mean both, and judging by her facial structure, the stray pieces of brown hair peeking out of her hat and the barely clinging on cap she was wearing, she must've been a female stowaway trying to board illegally.

But she was too far below for Sherlock to see anything else. He could not see anything other than that. And that frustrated him to no end. He wanted to know what her story was and why the hell she was on this ship, for the sake of his sanity.

He had always been able to read people, and he hates how he couldn't read her.

Sherlock tries to find closure in the fact that she was too far away.

But, considering that she was a stowaway trying to get onboard, she must've succeeded going by the lack of commotion, and he wondered where she would be residing for the trip. Her clothes could not blend in well with even the second class passengers. So she must be hiding amongst the third class.

Sherlock knew the art of disguise, it was simply a matter of hiding in plain sight. However most of his clothes, including his disguises, were in the hold, out of reach.

But then again, he was never one for subtlety.

As soon as he decided to embark to the third class cabins, he felt a presence approaching.

"What are you doing?" a small voice asked tentatively.

It was a female voice, soft and sweet with a slight stutter, most likely from the cold weather.

"You're going to freeze to death out here," the voice continued.

"Well I could say the same abou –" he turned, and when he saw those brown eyes peering back at him through a woolen hat, he knew it was her.

Looks like he didn't have to go looking after all.

"What?" the woman asked bashfully as she put a hand on her face, "Is there something on my face?"

Sherlock ignored her question and started to look. _Really _look. The night was dark and there was nothing illuminating the deserted deck except for a lone light by the door heading inside, but he could still see her, even if her face was half clouded by shadows.

The strip of cloth that was peeking out of her collar was the same shade and pattern, hinting that she had not yet changed despite looking much more relaxed and laid back. Calloused and scarred hands are the telltale signs of a hard worker, and judging that she was a stowaway – she must jobless and most likely lived on the street. But for how long? Ah, yes, parental issues. Her mother pressured her to marry, judging by the scarred lines on her ring finger which was red with constant pressure being put on it. She thought about it often and absentmindedly played with it, and when she had the ring on her finger, she twirled it often, creating a ring shaped scar. Nervous – didn't want to get married. Mother or father pressured her, most likely mother because of social propriety amongst the society.

Runaway. Problem with mother. Living on the streets for a while. Previously engaged.

He felt a smile grace his face.

_Finally. _He could finish that story. He hated not being able to deduce.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he saw the woman staring at him through hooded eyes, though her face was flushed.

Sherlock smirked, "Funny how being pressured into doing things we don't want to do create such drastic effects."

The woman looked puzzled. "What?"

He pointed to her finger, cold weather be damned. "You. You were engaged but ran away. Mother forcing you into it. But why? Why did you refuse? You ran away from wealth and decided to live on the streets, or else you wouldn't have been pressured to be married in the first place. So tell me," Sherlock approached her and leaned closer, narrowing his eyes, "Why are you here?"

The woman stuttered and stared at him, wide eyed and lips parted. Sherlock could see her breath disappear into the air.

"Well?" he persisted.

The woman's eyes flickered around, and yet they always seemed to come back and lock with his own. "It…it's none of your business," she finally managed to say.

Sherlock snorted. "It's my business to know what other people do not know."

As he watched the woman stare at him with wide doe eyes, he hummed and squinted his eyes again, leaning into her personal space. He noticed that she did not recoil. "You obviously have no family living in New York. So why run away from your home, and sneak aboard? What could possibly possess you to do that?"

The brown haired woman stuttered again, backing away from him and hitting her back on a pole. "Who…who are you to ask me those things? How exactly is it your business? I don't have to explain myself to you!"

Sherlock smirked. "I'm the only one aware of a stowaway on board."

The woman stuck her chest out defiantly, and Sherlock rose a brow. "No, you're not."

Sherlock popped his cheek, "I see. So you found refuge with a passenger. How sweet."

"Yeah! And they're a bloody sight nicer than you!"

Sherlock halted and blinked. The newly found silence was anything but a warm welcome in the cold night, and he watched as the woman in front of him puffed out a breath of air and began to curl in on herself, wrapping her arms around her petite body. So she usually doesn't stand up for herself.

"I," Sherlock found himself stuck at the word, "I'm sorry."

The woman looked up at him again, her rosy cheeks even more aflame than they were when he first saw her. "I…I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have shouted at you like that. It's…it's not me."

Sherlock nodded then quirked his head at her, "You don't stick up for yourself often, do you?"

She shook her head. "O-only when I'm in immediate danger or if someone thoroughly pisses me off. I don't really like raising my voice."

They stood in silence for a beat before the woman decided to speak up again.

"How…how did you know those things about me?" she wrapped her coat around her tighter.

Sherlock stretched his hand out, silently asking for her hand. "May I?"

The woman stared at the outstretched hand for a moment before finally placing her own in his palm.

* * *

Molly watched as the stranger traced the scars on her ring finger, the only remnants remaining of a marriage left broken. "The scars on your ring finger are in the shape of an engagement ring, to get a scar like this you have to have had handled it often, twisting and turning it. Usually when someone fidgets with something, it's because they're nervous – so subconsciously you didn't want to get married. If we go by balance probability, then your mother was the one that forced you to get married. And since you were pressured into getting married, that means you come from wealth, because decorum and social propriety there is much more rigorous."

He turned her hand over, palm facing upwards as he lightly trailed his fingers across hers. Molly tried to suppress a shiver.

"Your fingers and hands are calloused. Getting callouses takes a long time, and these scars are old, at least three years old or maybe even more. So you're a hard worker, most likely working with your hands. But here you are, sneaking aboard the ship amongst all-male workers, so that means you have no money to pay for a ticket. Calloused hands, sneaking aboard a ship – conclusion? You ran away from a wealthy home to get away from the marriage you were pressured into by your mother. And you've been living on the streets ever since."

Molly felt her mouth go slack-jawed, and felt the warmth from her hand disappear when the stranger let it fall from his grasp.

"Am I right?" he asked her.

Molly looked up, and indeed, those were the blue eyes staring at her earlier that day, observing her from the ramp above. But closer, in the lone light from the deck and the moon, his eyes were even bluer. She felt herself sinking into them.

"Y-yes," she whispered in awe.

He smirked and put his hands behind his back. "So will you answer my question then? Why are you here?"

Molly twiddled her fingers, finally relaxing in the presence of the stranger. And she realized that after years on the streets meeting people with places to be and lives to uphold, that this stranger was the only one who had ever seen right through her.

She realized that he was the only one who knew her story. And he didn't care.

"You're right. I did run away because I didn't want to get married. And I've been living on the road ever since. But I'm tired of running, and I want to start a new life somewhere far away."

The man scoffed, "How cliché."

"Oh really?" Molly responded, "Then why are you out here instead of in there? Why are you here talking to a penniless girl when you could be inside mingling with those of your class? Am I not beneath you? It seems to me that you're the cliché – the posh little rich boy in rebellion."

Molly heaved a breath then clumped her hands over her mouth. Oh god, what had she just said? Her eyes widened in disbelief, this is not who she is. She doesn't say stuff like this. Oh god, she was ruined, he was going to tell her secret to the authorities on board.

"Oh god I'm sorr –"

"What right do you have to say that?" he asked her with a clenched jaw, eyes darker than the ocean in daylight. "You don't know me."

Molly breathed deeply and plucked up a piece of courage, "And yet you say you know me. But let me tell you something – a stranger has no reason to lie."

Molly stood straighter, narrowing and leveling her brown eyes to meet his blue ones. "So tell me, out of both of us here, which is the one that's running away?"

She watched as the man backed down, though his eyes still spoke of suppressed anger. Molly thought her eyes were fooling her when she thought she saw a hint of sadness and admiration in them, because a man like that doesn't admire anyone except himself.

"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll be heading back to my quarters," she pulled her coat tighter against her and turned, strutting away, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute.

"What's your name?" the stranger called out.

Molly turned to face the man with alabaster skin, "Since you know so much about me already – figure it out."

* * *

Sherlock tried really hard not to run after her, but as she turned the corner after calling him out on his hypocrisy and supposed cliché life, he couldn't help but wonder why exactly he felt like he wasn't done with her just yet.

No, he wanted to know more.

As her hair swept passed the corner, his knees buckled against his own will and he slumped against the bench, knees wobbly and frozen from the freezing temperatures.

Who exactly was she to call him out? Yes, he was a rich boy in rebellion, but she didn't know the half of it. She didn't know him, not his story, not his life.

And yet, she knew he was running away.

Who was she to sneak onto this ship and have the audacity to berate him? She should be thanking her lucky stars that he wasn't going to rat her out.

He told himself it was for the sole reason of his interest in mysteries. Yes, that's what she was. A mystery. Nothing more, nothing less, and nothing but that.

But wasn't he already done with her? Hadn't he already figured her out? She had said that he was right about everything he deduced, but for some reason, Sherlock felt no closure. He felt like the story hadn't ended yet. He felt like there was more to her that he still didn't know, he just didn't know what.

He also didn't know why she was the only woman ever to interest him for more than five minutes. Or how she could switch from a stuttering mess into a courageous voice in a split second.

No, for some reason, he wasn't done with her just yet.

* * *

Molly ran, she ran and ran and ran until her legs brought her down the stairs and into her compartment. Then she flung herself on the bed and screamed into the pillow with flowing rage and released anger.

_God,_ she thought darkly, _who on Earth does he think he is?_

He was arrogant, heartless, had everything and cared about nothing. He was nothing but the typical rich boys she met when she was younger.

So why exactly was she still thinking about him now? And why did her heart start to pound when he grasped her hand in his?

Why is it that she can think of nothing but his eyes? Clearest blue like the sky and so cold that his icy glare could pierce her soul and read her like an open book. When she was in front of him, Molly felt naked and exposed for the world to see.

He was destructive and pompous. But…Molly mused quietly, there also seemed to be a sadness in his eyes. He almost seemed hurt when she declared him a typical posh rich boy in rebellion. He had recoiled slightly and she would have entirely missed it if they were not standing so close together.

But there was a question that she wanted him to answer – why was he keeping her secret?

Molly wanted to know what on Earth possessed him to keep the secret of a stowaway. Most like him would have scoffed and recoiled from her presence, calling security the instant they saw her wandering on board.

But not him. Why not him?

No, she wasn't done with him just yet.

* * *

Sherlock trudged and weaved through the flurry of people and tables, spotting his parents surrounded by other first class passengers.

He plopped himself down into an empty seat beside his mother ungracefully, and he ignored his father's glare.

"Oh, Sherlock! There you are! I was getting worried, thought you'd gotten lost," his mother fretted.

He mumbled a barely audible 'sorry.'

"That's quite alright, I was actually just telling Dr. Watson here about Mycroft," Violet gestured over to the couple on the other side of the table. A blonde woman and a blonde man, married happily.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Of course. Mycroft."

He felt his father kick him underneath the table.

His attention was turned to the man sitting opposite him when Sherlock saw an outstretched hand in front of him. He took it in his own.

"Hello, John Watson," the man smiled at him.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"This is my wife, Mary," he pointed to the woman beside him and shook Sherlock's hand next in a firm grip. Strong woman. Good morals and background. Loyal. Good for a man like John.

"Hello," he nodded his head in greeting.

"Well actually, Mrs. Holmes," John started, eyes darting to Sherlock's for a brief moment before flittering back to Violet's, "since I've already heard so much about Mycroft, I would love to hear about Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled as the waiter handed him his dinner.

Yes, he liked John Watson.

* * *

As Molly settled into her makeshift bed on the floor beside Greg's bed (he had insisted she take the bed, but Molly refused), she found her thoughts drifting off to a certain first class passenger with blue eyes.

His face haunted her, white and alabaster skin with not a freckle or mole in sight, it looked like marble. Eyes that were a seething blue, and perfectly shaped Cupid bow lips. From what she could see in the weak light, he seemed to have a mop of tamed dark curls, and sharp cheekbones that casted dark shadows over his face.

Despite his arrogance, he was most possibly the most beautiful man that Molly had ever met. Nothing and no one compared.

But there was something off about him, and Molly couldn't exactly put a finger on it.

There was a sadness in his eyes, and a vulnerability in his stance. Within the face that held no emotions, there seemed to just be _something_ there.

She found herself wanting to see him again, despite everything.

* * *

The leather shoes he was wearing was crusted in ice crystals, Sherlock thought mundanely as he set them away by the door.

When he found himself settling into bed, even though he knew he wouldn't be getting much sleep, there was a fast knock on his door.

Sherlock was just about to pretend to be asleep when he saw his father rage in, still dressed in formal wear and slightly wobbling about, still tipsy from the alcohol he had consumed earlier that evening.

Sherlock found his body shrinking into himself. His father was never a good drunk, although he only drank occasionally.

"Sherlock," Siger's hoarse voice called out quietly, but that is what made it all the more menacing, "do _not _be late again."

And then the door slammed shut, and Sherlock felt his body relax.

He fumbled with his violin strings, plucking them idly as he found his thoughts drift towards the woman he met earlier.

He couldn't see much of her, not with her wool hat pulled over her head tightly and the shadows clouding half her face, but he saw enough to know that she had brown eyes, thin lips and a button nose. Her hair was long, chestnut brown and plain, not styled and untamed, but it worked on her. If she had tried harder, or perhaps kept the look that came with her original background, then she could've been considered quite 'attractive.'

She didn't look like anything special. But to Sherlock, mysteries were the most special things in existence.

When he found himself drifting off in a rare case of fatigue, he had no idea that the woman he was thinking about fell asleep thinking about him too.

* * *

**I'm trying to make my chapters longer, because then I don't get weary about posting chapters often. And besides, I think I do better on my longer chapters :)**

**So yeah, I know Molly is slightly OOC in attitude and standing up towards Sherlock, but she is a runaway, and even though she still remains sweet and slightly nervous, time on the street has obviously hardened her to an extent. And anyway, she isn't in love with him yet, so the nervousness hasn't come to full effect yet :)**

**Once again, thank you for your reviews on the previous chapter (names are listed in the previous A/N)! I cannot express how much I thank you for the feedback!**

**Thank you to those who favourited and followed as well :)**

**I'd love to hear your feedback and comments on this! So review? :) Your comments mean so much to a writer :) **


	3. April 11th, 1912

**Sorry for not updating sooner, but school just started up for me and I'm just trying to get back into a routine :)**

**Thank you everyone that reviewed the previous chapter! You're fabulous people.  
Izwick, actressen, TeeLights, IceQueenForLife, GreenEye89, Kitty Foyle, wheel-of-dawn, Get Sherlocked, yes-I-am-a-genius and Hedgie owner! Thank you! :)**

**Alright so here's chapter 3!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

Perhaps it was John Watson's smile that made Sherlock trust him, or maybe it was the good doctor's ability to swerve the conversation from Mycroft to Sherlock without sounding offensive.

Whatever it is and however he might have done it, Sherlock didn't mind John Watson turning up unexpectedly the next morning.

He woke with a start, breath coming out in fast pace and violin unceremoniously cluttered on the floor, but Sherlock's main focus was the hasty knocking on the door.

"What?" he groaned tiredly, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand.

The door creaked open, and Sherlock saw his mother step inside.

"Sherlock! Oh it's good you're up, there's a gentleman here to see you," Violet chirped happily.

"There's someone here to see me?" Sherlock asked, a hand already outstretched to reach the clothes that had been laid out for him.

Violet nodded, "Oh yes. The man we met last night? Dr. Watson."

Sherlock's mouth formed an 'o.'

"Just get yourself dressed quickly, he's waiting outside."

"Right, fine," Sherlock mumbled and slipped into the bathroom, mind swimming with the reasons as to why exactly John Watson would want to see him.

Once he's got himself cleaned up and dressed in one of his suits, he walks out towards the living room, windows already open with the smell of sea salt wafting through them. The waves crashing against the ship's structure is prominent, but Sherlock finds them fascinating nonetheless.

Like his mother said, true to her word, John Watson is sitting on one of the lavish sofa's situated by the unlit fireplace, book in hand.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, and John calmly shuts his book and places it back on the table.

"I didn't realize that it was a bad thing to see someone out of interest," John replies coolly, gaze never wavering.

Sherlock nods carefully and sits down on armchair next to the sofa, "I see. But _why_ do you want to see me?"

John shrugs, "No reason. I just had fun last night, is all. Thought you might like to join me for a walk around the ship."

Sherlock considers this, and John knows he is by the crinkling between his eyebrows.

"Where's your wife?" the younger man asks.

"She's with a couple friends in the lounge. I don't really know anyone else on here but you, so I decided why not?"

Sherlock bites his lip and glances at the clock, _ten past seven in the morning_, he registers lamely, and thinks that maybe looking for the stowaway could be delayed a couple hours. He didn't think she would be up this early anyway, feeling the comfort of a bed after so long.

So he nods, and soon he's out the door with John Watson in tow.

* * *

She doesn't exactly know why she dreamed of blue eyes that night, or why she felt her heart throbbing the next morning, all Molly knows is that she did and she didn't mind.

She sees Lestrade's hand hanging lazily off the side of the bed, his short silver hair still pristine and mouth slightly agape with deep breaths. Molly thinks he looks ten years younger when he's asleep.

She sits up and stretches, feeling herself loosen and the haze of sleep drift off slowly, the world sharpening.

Molly was used to early mornings, she would wake long before the dawn rose, when the city was asleep and the night watchers finally settling down. She always used to have to keep moving, there was no room and no use in staying.

But today was probably the first time in years that Molly has woken up after the sun, courtesy of a soft blanket and a proper pillow, and even though she's not sleeping in the comfort of the bed, it's still the best sleep she has ever had in years.

Lestrade emits a groan from beside her, and Molly watches as his eyes flutter open, his brown iris's adjusting to the light.

"M'rnin," he mumbles incoherently, and Molly greets him in return.

He sits up and leans against the wall beside the bed, feet dangling off the edge as Molly folds up the blankets she was using. "Did you have a good sleep?"

"Oh yes, definitely," Molly replies, "thank you again."

"It's no problem," Lestrade smiles, "I got back here and you were already knocked out. Didn't think taking a walk would make someone that tired."

Molly laughs unsteadily, Lestrade was a nice enough man, and she liked him well enough, but she would still rather keep last night's encounter to herself. She didn't exactly find a reason why anyone else had to know about her encounter.

She's still thinking about him until now.

"Well the ship's pretty big," Molly says, and Lestrade nods in agreement.

"Can't argue with you there. It's bloody massive!"

Molly laughs at his enthusiasm, and Lestrade smiles widely at her in return.

"Hey speaking of ships, do you think you could give me a tour?"

Molly stops suddenly, her eyes widening, she didn't really get to see much of the ship, nothing other than the deck where she met _him, _and the last thing she wants is to get lost. But then again, getting lost with Lestrade doesn't seem all that bad.

"Yeah, sure, just let me get changed."

* * *

Sherlock's mind was swimming, like the rapid firing of a gun at high speed in close range. The air was filled with words, life stories of different passengers played out by their clothes and their hair, and Sherlock's mind is beginning to hurt by the infernal overload of data.

He registers John talking animatedly beside him, and right now he is the only person Sherlock finds tolerable.

"That was fantastic," he hears John sigh again.

"It was nothing. But that's not what people normally say."

John raises a brow at him, "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock hums, and John gives a slight chuckle.

"I can imagine why."

Sherlock gives him a look, "What do you mean?"

"I _mean,_" John drawls out the word, "that I understand why they do. I know for a fact that people don't usually like to get told their life stories, 'specially their secrets."

Sherlock huffs petulantly, "It's not like I can switch it off."

"You don't have too. I quite like it," John tells him, and Sherlock feels something in his heart swell – it feels like happiness.

"You'd be the first."

John frowns slightly, and realizes that maybe underneath the posh suit and the snide remarks, lay a man that just wanted to be accepted.

And, for the first time since meeting the strange man the previous night, John saw the first hint of something akin to happiness in his eyes.

He's glad that he was the cause of it.

"You don't have many friends, do you?" John asks Sherlock quietly.

He thought he'd get mad, he thought he'd get defensive, but John should have expected nothing less than a direct answer.

"No."

John pauses for a moment, letting the somber information sink in. "Did you ever want any?"

Sherlock sighs deeply, "I did…a long time ago. But then I realized that I was much better off alone."

And he was right. Well, in Sherlock's mind he was. But there were a lot of reasons why he wanted to be alone, and a hell of a lot more why he stopped wanting friends.

He didn't really find a point, everything ended anyway.

He stopped caring a lot time ago.

"You're not right about everything," John murmurs, and Sherlock wants to deny it, but it keeps him wondering what John exactly meant.

"I am right about most things."

"Everyone makes mistakes."

"I hardly think that you're in a position to tell me so. I only met you last night," Sherlock snaps irritably.

John recoils slightly at his tone of voice, but he pushes on nevertheless. "Even if I only met you last night, it's obvious that sometimes you need someone to keep you in check."

"I already have someone that does that for me," a scowl has now formed on Sherlock's face.

"I hardly think that you actually listen to your father," John partly mimics, and he revels at the slightly shocked look on Sherlock's face.

"How'd you know it was my father?"

John shrugs, "He kept giving you these looks last night. Your relationship with each other isn't exactly secret."

Sherlock nods, and John thinks he can see a hint of a smile.

He may have only known Sherlock for one night, and they might have only been in each other's company for a handful of hours, but the consulting detective isn't as emotionless as he thinks he is. He wears emotions on his face just like everyone else, and despite Sherlock's constant rebuts, John has never been an idiot.

And weirdly enough, he found himself liking the detective.

The man was brash and brilliant, but he was also childish and petulant with a need for restraint. He wore a sign that screamed of loneliness, and John knows the signs well enough because he remembered a time in his life when he had nothing but himself.

Sherlock was lonely and sad and denying every bit of it.

And John will be damned before he lets anybody suffer through what he did, so he'll be his friend.

Sherlock, on the other hand, cannot deny the fascination he had with the doctor, because in truth, despite his entire presence screaming of normalcy, John was the only person that ever stayed.

The man who came back.

No one ever comes back.

That, in itself, made John a whole mystery of his own.

"I don't understand," Sherlock croaks, "why are you still here with me?"

John gives him an incredulous look, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you still here with me? People don't particularly like me."

"I like you," John says as if it's the easiest thing in the world, and Sherlock feels an involuntary smile cross his face.

Then he sees _her. _

_Her _in the daylight, with the sun now shining on her pale face, highlighting the thinness of her lips and her little button nose. _Her_, with her hair now freely cascading down her back and her clothes looking much cleaner.

_Her, _with someone else.

"Sherlock?"

He snaps out of his reverie, and notices John's questioning look.

"Are you alright? You kind of just drifted off there."

Sherlock glances back at John and nods his head absentmindedly before turning back towards _her._

She is in front of him, leaning over the edge of the ship with her hair blowing around her face, and she's laughing wistfully with the silver haired man beside her.

She looks happy.

But she is still a mystery.

Then she reels back, and they lock eyes.

Her lips suddenly dropped into a frown, and her eyes grew darker.

"Sherlock, who's that?" John asks, his eyes flickering towards the staring match between the man beside him and the woman who was obviously in third class.

"I don't know," was Sherlock's blunt answer.

John knows he's lying.

* * *

They had wandered onto the deck after a quick bit to eat, and Molly found that Lestrade was good company to have.

He had made her laugh, a true laugh that she had not heard in a long time. He made her forget, just for one moment, that she had nothing left in her name.

But even so, her mind kept drifting towards the man with the blue eyes and the steel gaze.

And here he was now, standing in front of her with a much shorter blonde man with kind but questioning eyes standing beside him.

"Molls," Lestrade interrupted her train of thought, "who's that?"

She found that her mouth opened involuntarily, and could not fathom the reason why nothing came out.

"Molly he's coming over," Lestrade nudged her.

And he was right. The dark-haired man was now marching up towards her, his mouth wound tightly and pursed, eyes tensed and fists clenched. The blonde man was following him with quirked eyebrows.

"I still didn't catch your name," the man persisted, his gaze never wavering. Molly ignored Lestrade's confused look.

"And I recall telling you to figure it out yourself," she replied with less bite than the previous night, remembering the way that the blue-eyed man plagued her dreams.

The man hummed quietly, his face slightly loosening as he took a once over the silver-haired male standing beside the stowaway.

"Estranged wife, left England because of her, part of the police force – one of its top inspectors actually, so why are you in third class? Ah, of course, saving money to start over in New York, away from the memories of your wife's infidelity and your parent's recent death," the man rattled on quickly.

"How –" but Lestrade was quickly cut off.

"Don't bother asking, he'll just give you a sarcastic reply and call you an idiot," the blonde man told Lestrade pleasantly before sticking his hand out.

"Doctor John Watson."

Lestrade and Molly eyed the hand carefully, slightly perturbed at the kindness the first class passenger was emitting towards them. He was grateful nonetheless, however, it wasn't often that someone of his stature would extend such a courtesy.

"Greg Lestrade," he answered and shook the man's proffered hand firmly.

"Pleasure to meet you," he dipped his head towards him and then to the lady, "I apologize for my friend's bluntness."

Molly noticed that the blue-eyed man seemed taken aback by John's use of the word 'friend.'

"It's no trouble, it's not the first time I've experienced it," Molly spoke back.

"Oh really?" John quirked a brow, "Because Sherlock here said that he didn't know who you were."

Molly couldn't help but feel like something painful had just stabbed her chest. Of course he thought nothing of her but a disgraceful passenger who was beneath him.

She had hoped that the reason he didn't rat her out was because he saw something in her, turns out she was wrong. What she was right about though, was that he – _Sherlock, _was an arrogant old sod.

Screw the fact that he was absolutely gorgeous.

Molly saw Sherlock's face tense up, and relished in the fact that he was caught unexpected by the reveal of his lie.

"I think you're forgetting Doctor Watson," Molly smiled tersely, "that everybody lies."

"He was probably just ashamed and embarrassed to be caught staring at someone below him," she continued.

"I am not embarrassed," Sherlock suddenly blurted out, eyes raging. Lestrade huffed slightly and stood off with John at the side, both of them watching the subtle duel between their companions.

"Oh really?" Molly asked, her head cocked innocently to the side, "then why'd you lie?"

"Why won't you tell me your name?"

"I asked you first."

"I asked you second."

"Let's not have a repeat of last night," Molly finished, her eyes sizing Sherlock up. She was mad – furious even, at his blatant disregard for their meeting. She's not going to deny that it hurt. Something like that, what happened the previous night, the way their lives and lies had already been tangled up with each other's, could not be easily forgotten.

They had already seen through each other. Her – with her purpose on the ship and life story. Him – with his loneliness and rebellion that no one else ever bothers to acknowledge.

"Then just tell me your name," he asked her again.

Molly jutted out her bottom lip in thought, and saw John's eyes gleaming with fascination and mischief, and Lestrade's with confusion and interest.

"It's Molly Hooper," she told him finally.

Sherlock visibly relaxed, the tightness in his features subsided and Molly noticed that he suddenly seemed much more content.

Was that all he wanted? Her name so he would be able to tell the authorities?

She narrowed her eyes.

"I don't believe I caught your last name," Molly demanded irritably.

Sherlock's lips quirked up for the briefest second, "Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

Molly hummed quietly and nodded her head, an interesting name for an interesting man. It fit him.

But it still hurt. Because he was the only man that saw through her and read her life story and didn't care that she ran away from the wealth she was graced with and the easy life she could have led. Because he didn't care and for once in her life she was happy that someone saw through her and just shrugged her past right off like it didn't matter.

But then apparently he had to go and deny that he even knew her. And she thought that maybe he was different because he hadn't told anyone about the 'stowaway on board,' and despite hating herself for it, she couldn't stop thinking about him and his voice and his eyes and his everything. One meeting and he had already known most of her life.

She was so mad. And so hurt.

She wanted to embarrass him. Give him a challenge that he could not refuse.

"Well if you aren't embarrassed by knowing me, then come and spend the day with us," she gestured to herself and Lestrade, who's eyes widened significantly.

"I know the life you lead, and I know the way that you want to break free," here she was now, playing to his weakness, to his inner desires, and she could see Sherlock's Adam apple bob in anticipation, "so come with me and see what it really means to be alive."

Molly held out her hand, "Interested?"

Sherlock took a quick glance at Molly's offered hand, and knew that she had caught him right where she wanted him.

Oh, she was _good. _

A mystery indeed. She embodied the sudden personality changes he used to read in books such as 'The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," suddenly going from a stuttering mess into a brave and conniving woman. She knew and played her cards right. And Sherlock, much to his irritation, could not figure out how she could change so suddenly.

He wanted to figure her out, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

"Yes."

* * *

If Sherlock was going to go through this, he was not doing it alone.

"Why do I have to come?" John asks him in a hushed tone.

"Because you like me and you secretly want to."

"Right."

They were trailing Molly and Lestrade down through a series of white and wooden corridors, leaving the sun and the smell of sea salt behind and entering the section of the ship that smelled of smoke and tobacco ash, as well as a slight twinge of alcohol.

Sherlock found that he much preferred this to the smell of polished wood.

He had never been bothered by his way of dress or of social norms, but in this moment he felt somewhat out of place.

Sherlock was not privy to the stares he and John were receiving from the passengers they passed by in the hallway, looking at them with tilted heads and questioning eyes, but he found that John was rather people-friendly, smiling widely at those who scrutinized them, which they also returned in kind.

Sherlock never did understand why his parents didn't like the lower classes. Yes, they didn't have the wealth nor the money to live comfortably, and yes sometimes they were messy because they hardly got luxuries, but when it came down to it, they weren't all that bad.

Sherlock had always found that he felt much more comfortable in their presence.

He still felt out of place in his clothing, though.

He followed Molly and Lestrade to another set of metal stairs, descending them with a fervor and noticing that the smell of smoke got even more prominent.

Then he found himself in a crowded room with what seemed to be music playing faintly in the background, dulled by the animate chatter amongst the patrons.

It looked like some sort of bar, with families and passengers sitting on tables, gambling and drinking, some dancing, and others playing table games.

"Oi!" Sherlock heard a male voice with a thick accent bellow, "What are those two doing 'ere? You don't belong 'ere!"

Sherlock was just about to say something before Lestrade beat him to it.

"Shut it, anyone is welcome here. No judging, these men just want to live a little."

"Aye, then let's help them!" another voice laughed cheerfully.

Sherlock heard John laugh heartily beside him, and he looked up to see Molly and Lestrade's smiling faces.

He smiled too.

* * *

The time blurred together quickly, and Sherlock was now aware that the room had gotten colder with the arrival of the moon. His suit jacket was now flung over the chair beside him and his button up shirt was stuck was the smell of smoke and alcohol, and had slight stains from the drinks that spilled onto him when he bumped into people.

But he didn't mind one bit.

John was still beside him, talking happily away to a construction worker about the man's family in New York, where they were waiting for him to come back. And John, in turn, told him about his wonderful wife who did not come from old money, but he loved her all the same.

"You're looking at her again."

"Hm?" Sherlock asked, his gaze now ripped away from where it once was.

John nodded towards the dance floor, the seat beside him where the construction worker once sat now abandoned, "Molly. You've been looking at her all day."

"I have not," Sherlock defended.

"Yes you have."

Okay yes he has. But in his defense, the only reason he was looking at her incessantly was because he was trying to figure her out.

Sherlock noticed the way that she'd grab a tendril of hair and twirl it between her fingers when she was absorbed in a conversation, he noticed the way she bit her bottom lip when she was nervous, and the way that her eyes seemed to brighten ever so slightly when she was happy.

She looked happy. Like she belonged.

He wanted to feel that way.

"Sherlock, who exactly is she?" John asks and he pulls the detective away from the gaze once again.

"She…" he takes a look at her again, and realizes that even though he knows her life story and her little quirks, he still doesn't know _her, _and what type of person she really is.

"She's a mystery," he finishes lamely.

"Then go solve her," John urges.

He watches as Molly dances with Lestrade, laughing wildly and eyes twinkling with glee and energy and happiness, and Sherlock realizes that he has never really felt that way.

He realizes that maybe, just maybe, this stowaway could teach him how to live.

So Sherlock smiles at John and he tips his head in return before standing up and leaving the table, approaching the two friends.

"Excuse me?" he asked tentatively.

Both Molly and Lestrade froze mid-step and turned towards him, Molly held a look of confusion on her face while Lestrade was sporting a smile.

Sherlock thought maybe Lestrade could become a friend, too.

"May I step in?"

"Of course," the silver-haired man replied nicely and relinquished his hold on Molly, "as long as the lovely lady doesn't mind."

Sherlock watched as Molly's eyes flickered towards his and her lip quiver slightly. "It'd be my pleasure," she ended up saying warmly before placing her hand in Sherlock's own.

And just like the previous night, warmth spread through her, and she felt her heart throb against her chest.

Then it was almost like the music was waiting for them to come together, to join hands and lock gazes, because the upbeat tempo soon turned into a soft melody of classical brilliance, and both Sherlock and Molly felt their heritages take their place and come forward, commanding their feet to dance the way they were taught when they were younger.

Sherlock led, and Molly let him.

"Who are you, Molly Hooper?" Sherlock whispered quietly, his soft baritone voice sent quivers down Molly's back.

"I…I thought you already knew everything about me," she stuttered.

Sherlock tilted his head and widened his eyes, "Not really. I don't know _you_, and I hate it. I know and see through everyone and everything, but I don't know who you really are."

He leaned in closer, "So tell me…who are you?"

The music turned sensual, and Molly found herself gliding across the floor, her mind switched back to her dancing days when her mother had pressured her into taking lessons.

"What do you mean?" she replied meekly.

"Sometimes you're fierce, yet other times you stutter and stumble over words. Your abrupt changes in stance and personality baffle me, and I hate being confused," Sherlock mumbled deeply.

"When I met you, I thought that you were nothing more but a shy woman, but then you called me out, and you know what?"

Molly gasped quietly at his resounding voice inside her ear, "What?"

"You were right."

He leaned back and his eyes pierced hers, "I am in rebellion, but simply because my parents have forced me into a marriage that I was not aware of."

"Then you and I aren't so different after all," Molly responded in a lower tone.

Sherlock twirled her around and pulled her closer when the music began to reach its climax, "But you broke free. Teach me."

Molly's breath hitched in her throat as she struggled to find her voice, "The answer's simple."

"What is it?"

Then as the music reached its final climactic note, Molly whispered quietly.

"Live."

As the song ended, silence filled its absence, and Sherlock and Molly were locked in close embrace with Molly's back pressed towards his front and their intertwined hands placed on her stomach, with their faces just mere inches from one another.

His hot breath crashed on her face, and Molly found that she could not tear herself away from his piercing gaze.

Her heart was pumping harder than ever, and she felt something in her stomach churn, like a nervous feeling with butterflies fluttering around after finding the first bloom of spring.

God, she felt _alive. _

Sherlock, on the other hand, had his lips slightly parted and he felt his curls come loose around his face, errant and free for once instead of slightly combed back. He felt something shine its way into his mind, clearing it free from its constant state of disarray.

He loved the world being so much clearer.

"How do I live?" he asks gently.

"By letting go of what's logical, and following what feels right," Molly murmurs in return.

And Sherlock realizes that this moment feels right.

For once, he feels like he's where he's supposed to be.

Neither realizes the empty dance floor, abandoned by the previous dancers in order to watch the two glide gracefully across the floor, enveloped in each other's words and lives, and neither realizes that they are being watched by all the patrons in the room.

Lestrade huffs a breath in amazement and awe, "Well I'll be goddamned."

John smiles widely beside him.

Neither realizes that in this moment, their lives have forever been intertwined, either.

* * *

He finds himself now walking towards her room with her beside him, his mind still swimming with the words that were exchanged on the dance floor, and the implications that they will have.

Tonight was the very first time that he felt alive, and Sherlock intends to never let the feeling go.

Molly is walking beside him meekly, and she's playing with her fingers.

As they reach her door, he grabs her hand gently, taking it up towards his lips and kissing it lightly. He may be in rebellion, but he still knows when to be a gentleman.

"Thank you for teaching me," he tells her.

Molly's face flushes, and she nods her head in acknowledgement. But before she can turn around and open the door to join Lestrade in the room, she finds her mouth moving on its own accord.

"Why are you keeping my secret?" she asks him, and Sherlock merely quirks his lip up in return.

"You're the only mystery worth solving."

* * *

Sherlock finds that the smell of polished wood and crackling fire seem alien and unwelcoming.

He wants to go back.

Sherlock approaches his room, with the intent to mull over his life and think things through. He wants to know what he felt when he was dancing with her, what the feeling in his stomach meant when locked his hands with hers.

He wanted to see her again.

He wanted to figure out what he was feeling and life and what it all meant. And he needed her for it.

Sherlock had always been a smart man, genius even to his standards, but there were some things that even a genius needed help with. He needed her help. He needed to escape, and he was going to need her help to do it.

Sherlock now knew that her pupils dilated when she looked at him, that her breath got caught short when he leaned in close towards her, that when he did all these things she began to stutter.

She was attracted to him, and that was when she would start to stumble over words. And when she felt brave and was pushed enough, she'd find the right things to say.

Molly Hooper was brave when pushed and when needed be, but let attraction squash it down.

Sherlock had always assumed that love was a dangerous disadvantage, and yet, he found himself in a rush when he thought that he was capable of making the brave runaway's pulse race.

But even so, even now that he's figured her out, she still remained a mystery.

He wanted to know what these feelings were and how they related to her.

"Sherlock?"

He stops short of the door, hand barely touching the handle, when his mother's voice pulls him back from his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Where have you been?" Violet asks him.

"Out. With John," he replies tersely.

"Don't lie to us, Sherlock. You know I don't tolerate liars," he hears his father's deep voice say, and Sherlock stiffens.

"Face me when I'm talking to you."

So Sherlock does. His father his holding his face tensely, while his mother is standing calmly by the door to her bedroom.

"Now I'm going to ask you again," Siger repeats, "where have you been, Sherlock?"

"With John." It's not exactly a lie.

Then Sherlock feels his face snap sideways quickly, and barely registers the sound of a sharp _'slap' _before his face is stinging.

"You are _engaged_, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what would happen if your fiancé found out you were off with another _woman_?" his father spits out venomously. Violet takes a deep intake of breath in the background.

"I wasn't doing anyway with her," Sherlock bites back.

"Oh really?" Siger says sarcastically, "because I think _dancing _would warrant as 'something.' Quite intimately too, I might add."

"It meant nothing," Sherlock says, and he realizes that he wishes nothing more but to be back at the bar in the third class quarters, with John and Lestrade and Molly.

"Who is she?" his father demands.

"Please, son, just tell us," his mother pleads.

He's not going to give her name. He needs her to get away from this life. He wants to see her again.

"Who told you?" Sherlock demands firmly.

His father gives off an irritated huff of breath before giving him an answer.

"Someone named Jim Moriarty."

* * *

**You guys have been treated to a whopping 16 page chapter! :D It was fun to write!**

**Anyway I don't know if I explained the progression of Sherlock and Molly's relationship well enough. So did I? Or didn't I? Do their evolving feelings need more explaining? Do I need to work on it more?**

**Gosh so many questions because I feel so insecure about this and if it makes sense. :/ I have this horrible need for clarification. **

**Two more days until the Titanic hits the ice berg! And ooohhhh, Moriarty has shown up! **

**I would love to hear your feedback! So review? :) **

**Your feedback keeps me writing! :D **


	4. April 12th, 1912 - Morning

**I am SO sorry for not updating for like a month! But school started back up and everything's been all crazy and hectic and I went on an abroad school trip the week I meant to update so I couldn't so I'm sorry :( But it's fall break here now, so I finally have time to update :D **

**Thank you for your patience!**

**And also, thank you to all those who reviewed! IceQueenForLife, Get Sherlocked, actressen, MorbidbyDefault, , LvPayne, yes-I-am-a-genius, wheel-of-dawn, Anatomydoc, KittyFoyle and Hedgieowner! You guys are amazing! **

**Now onto Chapter 4!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

Molly still feels his hands on her skin. She can still feel his breath on her neck and his cool gaze boring into her own.

She can still feel her heart beat against her chest, like a hammer pounding a nail into a concrete wall. Hard and fast and strong with fervor.

Even in the dark, she can still see his raven hair as clear as day, and his presence shines through more than any jewel under the moonlight.

Molly hears Lestrade shift in his sleep on his bed beside her, a small smile playing on his lips that she knows is related to her and the dark-haired man she was dancing with earlier that night. She wasn't blind, she saw the way that Lestrade and John were looking at them, the way they parted seas when they came forth, and the way they abandoned both Molly and Sherlock for an early night in.

Molly finds that her heart is soaring at the prospect of seeing him again.

Because who would've thought that the little Molly Hooper and the great Sherlock Holmes would become so much more to one another than just a face in the crowd?

Maybe, just maybe, she misjudged him.

She thinks she's falling in love.

(And this time, she isn't scared.)

* * *

He tosses and turns in his sleep, his eyes pursed shut and his lips drawn tightly together in a thin line. He can still feel a pounding against his chest of a different kind of hurt, and he's not accustomed to this feeling at all.

He dreams of flying, of soaring through clouds and dashing through waves and running through backhanded streets and alleyways with his dark coat sweeping behind him in his stride, like a madman with a show to catch and a criminal to pursue.

But at every turn, he sees her face. A soft, female face with dark brown eyes, fair skin and chestnut hair, her eyes look sad but when she senses that his gaze is on her, they are suddenly filled with so much _life _that he feels it himself. He feels lighter, like he's treading on water on a thin thread but there's no worry of falling and drowning.

But there's another face, of a dark and cackling faceless man in the shadows lurking about, waiting and watching like a fox ready to prance. When Sherlock hears his laugh, an unsettling feeling heaves on his chest, weighing him down and tiring him out, and then suddenly the voice gets louder and louder and louder, and _she _begins to disappear and fade from sight, her hand outstretched towards him and he can vaguely register his hand reaching out as well.

But he's on his knees, choking and falling and there's nothing he can do but listen to the faceless man cackle wildly until _she _is gone and there's nothing left but emptiness in space and a deep, maniacal voice whispering into the air.

"_I will burn the heart out of you."_

Then the world is a haze and Sherlock can only register the sound of the waves crashing against the ship and his deep breathing.

And for the first time, Sherlock has no idea what to do.

He doesn't know why _she _was in his dream, he doesn't know why he has a heavy feeling in his chest, and he definitely doesn't know why she's suddenly infiltrating his thoughts day in and day out.

And most of all, he definitely doesn't know why it hurt so much to see her disappear from sight.

He needs to find Jim Moriarty.

* * *

The sun greets him, not with a warm face, but with a hot glare. Sherlock can feel his eyes burning with white heat, and he drops his head to look at the polished ground, perfectly lined wood and everything.

He hates it.

The clinking sound of silverware rouses him from his thoughts and he raises his eyes to see his father glaring at him from across the breakfast table, now secluded in their own quarters.

"Are you going to lock me in here? Chain me up like a caged animal because you're afraid your reputation will get tarnished?" Sherlock chuckles humorlessly. Siger narrows his eyes.

"I will not," he places his napkin down with an eerie calm, "but I expect you never to see that girl again."

"I never intended to."

Siger quirks a brow, "Now something tells me that's not quite true."

And as much as Sherlock wanted to say his father was wrong, he wasn't.

* * *

He walks along the side of the ship, his hands poised gracefully behind him and his chest puffed out like a bird getting ready for flight, there are passengers looking at him with wide doe eyes, young married women getting pulled away by their husbands, but he does not give them a single glance.

Sherlock had never really grasped the concept of human attraction.

And yet, despite his tousled curly hair as a divergence from its usual slicked back style and his all-black suit, he has no inkling as to why someone like _Molly Hooper _made him feel so alive.

Molly was such a _boring _name.

But, despite all his graces, Sherlock has never been one to spot the true meaning of his own feelings.

It was one of his…greatest flaws (how can a machine have flaws?).

So, as the ship rocked back and forth and steamed ahead, he pulled his coat closer towards him and walked on, eyes scanning and leaving those who were of unimportance to him, and strode onwards.

That is, until he was pulled away from the sunlight and into the darkness.

* * *

"So what was that about last night?"

"Hm? Sorry, what?" Molly peers up from her blanket.

"You've been awake for a while now, I know you have. Now tell me, what was going on between the two of you last night?" Lestrade pushed the duvet off him and swerved to sit on the edge of the bed, hands clasped lazily between his legs.

Molly gawked, "I-I don't know what you're talking about." She blushed and hid underneath her blanket.

"Oi now, I'm not daft, what was that with you two?"

"What was what with who?" a muffled voice came from behind the fabric.

Lestrade rolled his eyes playfully and yanked off the cloth, ignoring Molly's kicking feet, "That dance with you and Sherlock Holmes!"

"He was just asking me something," Molly said innocently, her eyes blinking bashfully and arms covering her face to shield herself from the embarrassment of her blush.

"Looked like more than that, the bloke looked absolutely entranced."

"Nice word choice there," Molly joked.

"No! In all seriousness," he held his hands up defensively, "He was looking at you like you were some sort of diamond."

Molly felt her heart begin to pump faster against her chest, so fast that she could barely count the beats. Her face felt hot and she felt a smile coming across her face.

"You were looking at him like you had been waiting for him you're entire life," Lestrade continued.

"So don't tell me that there was nothing there, because Molly, you'd have to be blind not to see it."

"I may not have known him for very long, Greg, but Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel."

"Maybe," Lestrade stands up and makes his bed, "but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel anything with _you."_

* * *

"My, my, my, Sherlock Holmes, what a pleasure to meet you indeed," a voice drawled out.

Sherlock turned and stumbled, the door slamming shut from behind him and the blinds drawing shut, leaving only one ray of light to shine through into the empty dock room. There is a distinct creak in the floor, Sherlock notes absentmindedly.

"I wish I could say the same thing."

The voice_ tsked_ in disappointment, "A shame, really, but I guess my excitement can more than make up for the both of us."

"Jim Moriarty, I take it?" Sherlock concluded, walking around the room in circles, his eyes penetrating through every wall, every curtain and every detail.

There's a shuffle of steps on the creaky wooden floor, and Sherlock sees a man, shorter than him, walk out of the shadows, his suit as dark and black as his eyes.

"Oh clever, _very _clever. They did say you were clever," Moriarty chuckled darkly, though his eyes stayed dead and lifeless.

"Who said?"

"Now, now, don't act all stupid, we both know you're better than that. So do what you do best," Moriarty spreads his arms wide like an eagle, "deduce."

Sherlock's upper lip trembles in irritation, "You've been keeping an eye on me."

"Good!" Moriarty practically squeals, "_Very _good. And?"

"And you have _pets_," he sneers the word, "around this ship that do your spying for you."

Moriarty grins wide, "Nicely done. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"So what's so important about me?"

"What made you think you were important?"

Sherlock paced the room gracefully, gliding across the floor with the same decorum as last night when he held…_her._

"You mentioned your name directly when you spoke to my parents, you have your henchmen, if I wasn't important then you wouldn't bother to say your real name."

Moriarty bounded on his feet excitedly, a wide maniacal grin already spread on his pale face, "I knew you were worth it."

Sherlock leaned back from the other man's gaze, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. "Worth what?"

"Worth following."

"Following?"

Moriarty nodded his head fervently, "Oh yes indeed, Sherlock dear. I've been following you for a while now. Big fan," he shook his head, "big fan."

"And you were so _good._ So smart," Moriarty began to sneer, "so _mechanical._ You were the _perfect specimen._ And then you had to meet _her._"

"Who?" Sherlock asked, his fingers tapping the pocket-knife he always kept with his tool kit inside his coat pocket.

"The girl!" Moriarty growled suddenly, "The GIRL! The girl with the brown hair and the brown eyes! The stowaway!"

Sherlock felt a stab in his chest, and he felt his throat closing up in an inexplicable manner. "What about her?"

Jim rolled his eyes and bared his teeth, "She did the worst thing someone could do to a machine."

"Which is?"

"She made you _human._"

Sherlock took a step back, and for a second, there was no sound in the room except for breathing, but even that seemed more deafening than the silence.

"You think she ruined me," he finishes.

Moriarty turns and runs his hands along the paintings on the walls, scrapping the dust off with his fingers and tilting his head to the side, a soft, seemingly innocent smile playing on his face.

"No…" he drawls out, "I _know _she did."

"You needn't worry about your precious machine," Sherlock leers with narrowed eyes, "she hasn't done anything to him."

"Oh but that's where you're wrong," Moriarty counters, his steps now joyful and light-hearted, like a lion prancing around the room in a skillful and choreographed dance.

"She made you fall in love."

Sherlock scoffed. "Sentiment. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, I would never subject myself to such idiotic concepts."

Moriarty frowned dramatically, "Oh but Sherlock, it seems that you already have."

Sherlock watched as the other man crept closer, "You've fallen in love with her but you're scared of letting go of everything you've worked for. You're afraid of losing the life that you've built for yourself – the machine. But Sherlock dear, no matter how much you _observe_, you will never see things that others do when it comes to you, because honey, _you're blind._"

Jim pounced away, his eyes now narrowed into dark slits, like snakes. "Sometimes, it creeps up on you, but there are other times, when you least expect it, that everything tumbles down like a tsunami wave of water, and before you know it, you've been swept of your feet from the force of the blow."

Sherlock bared his teeth, his nose crinkled in contemplation and his eyes wide as if looking for prey to catch. He felt his breath hitch in his throat as it began to close up, and his palms sweat. Then there was that feeling of walking on air, on a cloud in the sky when he remembered _her_ and last night. He felt calmer when he recalled his hands on her hips and her hands wrung around his neck, her seemingly plain and ordinary face light up the room and her hands when he kissed them goodnight.

_Oh god._

"Ah, I see you've finally realized."

Sherlock panted as if in pain, "How could this have happened?"

Moriarty pursed his lips in a slight frown as his mouth turned downwards, "Because you're human. And as much as I love my machines, I am human too.

"You are a work of art, Sherlock Holmes, as am I, and I appreciate art. So I will not, under any circumstances, let a pauper steal the heart of a prince.

"So I will offer you a choice, Sherlock Holmes, and whether you take it or not is entirely up to you, but I am asking you, in kind, to join me. There is no better partner than me, Sherlock, because you are me. We could do so much."

Sherlock stopped and stared, his blue-grey eyes flashing with fading shock as the day's realizations dawned on him and lingered in his mind. Her face, her voice, her story, _the mystery_, the _dance,_ the way she shivered when he placed his lips on her skin. She knew how to live, and Sherlock was tired of dying every day.

She came in like a tsunami wave and swept him off his feet.

"I am you," Sherlock parroted, "but there is more to you, Jim Moriarty, than you care to say. So tell me," Sherlock cocked his head, "who are you?"

"You, a consulting detective, people come to you when they need help. I do the exact same thing."

Sherlock shook his head, "We may be the same, but there is a fine line between genius and insanity."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, stop with the flattery you're making me blush."

"Consulting criminal."

"Good! _Very _good!" Jim praised, his hands clapped together in front of his chest as he leaned forward, a grin etched on his face, spread wide like the Cheshire cat.

"Now, Sherlock, we're going to start a very great game, a game which you have no choice but to play."

"A choice is a choice, that's what it is and I always have one," Sherlock replied tersely, his hands tightening around the rail by the closed window in the room.

"If you don't play, someone will die. Maybe that good doctor of yours, or maybe that police detective? It seems you've made friends on this ship, Sherlock, and I will not hesitate to eradicate each and every one of them if it means that I'm going to get you."

The detective stiffened, and he not only felt, but heard, his pulse race.

This was a game he was not ready to play.

"What's the game?"

Moriarty clapped his hands together, "Oh it's very simple! You get off with me in New York, and you'll get the freedom you've always wanted! If you don't, the woman you love will die."

Sherlock sneered, "Your game doesn't seem very fair."

"My games are never easy."

"You see everything as a game, I see puzzles. Games are meant to be played. Puzzles, solved," Sherlock replied, his fingers now tapping against the iron bar on the window railing. "This is a puzzle just as much as it is a game, and I will find a way out."

Moriarty smiled warmly, "But for now, have you made your choice? Join me, or she dies."

He stretched out a hand, and for a second, Sherlock just gazed at the sickly pale skin and the blue veins decorating Moriarty's skin like veins.

Sherlock was a dead man treading on the veins of life.

But he placed his hand into Moriarty's own and shook the devil's hand in hell.

He made his choice.

* * *

**Sorry this was short, it was just a filler chapter! The story picks up after this! And I mean, it picks up big time!**

**It's been a while since I visited The Abundance of Sentiment, so I'm sorry if things don't make any sense or if things are moving too fast (because to me, everything seems slightly confusing, ESPECIALLY the explanation of Sherlock's feelings). **

**I think everything's confusing, so tell me, are they? And did I explain Sherlock's feelings well enough? Cause I felt like it was abrupt and didn't make sense (it probably is), and it's just annoying me relentlessly -.- **

**But in general, did everything make sense? **

**Oh god, my need for clarification is burning brighter than ever, I apologize deeply!**

**Anyway, thank you for reading my fabulous Sherlockians! You guys are amazing!**

**Drop a review? :) **


End file.
